


Baited Hook

by Rotpeach



Series: The Great Tumblr Rehoming of 2018 [25]
Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novels)
Genre: Alcohol, Blow Jobs, Emotional Manipulation, Other, Prostitution, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-18
Updated: 2016-11-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 23:39:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17069402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rotpeach/pseuds/Rotpeach
Summary: "Do me a favor and keep your mouth shut," he says. His pointed eye teeth catch the light when he smirks. "I'm a paying customer, remember?"





	Baited Hook

**Author's Note:**

> prequel to "dog with sharper teeth," but written/posted later

_Good things come to those who wait._

That’s what your horoscope says, anyway.

And you’re not usually all that invested in the column of the paper with a line of zodiac symbols and a laundry list of vague bullshit for each, but you’re willing to believe just about anything on nights like this.

Nights like this, when you scrape out the bottom of your wallet for a few pungent pennies so you can go buy toilet paper and instant meals from the convenience store, only to have to set one aside when you still don’t have enough. You’ve skipped lunch for a week straight and dinner the last couple days, your fridge is empty, and your car is filled up in five dollar increments. And when you look through your contact list in your phone and entertain the notion of asking for help, you hear your mother’s voice ringing loud and clear in both ears, telling you you’re going to use all your life ‘cuz that’s how you get by.

(And suddenly you’re eight all over again, sitting in some skeevy 24-hour laundromat between the lady who works at the gas station whose smiles are all worn out and a nervous meth head watching his t-shirts tumble in the dryer, and your mother is in the back somewhere sucking off a guy in a wife beater so you can get fast food after this.)

You stop at a red light downtown and see the neon lights across the intersection, glitzy like a piece of the Vegas strip, signs promising “PRIVATE DANCES” (hint hint wink wink) in a squiggly font trying too hard to be classy. You swallow the lump of fear in your throat and grip the steering wheel, trying to harden your resolve, but when the light turns green, you pull into an adjacent parking lot instead.

You take a deep breath. Good things, you remind yourself, and try to take a moment to calm your rapidly beating heart, but your mind wanders back to unpleasant childhood memories of huddling beneath the kitchen counter and listening to people screaming.

You cry. You hunch over the steering wheel, shuddering, and sob like you’re a child again, loud and ugly, clutching your jacket closer around your shoulders. Good things, you scoff inwardly, good fucking things, like what? What could possible go right now, what could make this better? You don’t want to do this, you don’t want to be your mother, but you’re hungry and you’re tired of stealing toilet paper from public restrooms.

As if your life is a terrible, scripted television drama, the lights of the bar you parked in front of flicker to life and catch your attention. It’s a hole in the wall sort of place with loud music and a few motorcycles parked right up close to the door, and you decide it’s perfect. You’re going to need a cheap drink or two before you go through with this.

And you definitely get a drink and then two and then a whole lot more once you find a spot at the bar and keep talking yourself out of leaving and going across the street, because why bother, right? Why even fucking bother? Good things to those who wait, you tell everyone within earshot, so you’ve just gotta wait a little longer and then maybe everything will fall into place.

You’d really rather go solo, you tell the bartender who eyes you with pity that you’re too far gone to recognize. You’d rather not get all tied down to some place like the _fine_ establishment across the street

(and make no mistake, it’s a strip club in name alone, you called inquiring about a job and got the run around until you said you _really_ needed the cash and didn’t care what was asked of you, that bullshit actually came out of your mouth in momentary desperation).

So, okay, the bartender’s on board, he’s good with that, he nods and pours another when you hold out your mostly empty glass, and you start to say more about how shitty your day’s been when you see him across the bar.

“Rough” is putting it gently. He’s six feet of muscle and scar tissue leaning up against the pool table, a shot of whiskey in one hand and a dangerous look in his eye. Eye, singular, because he’s got an eye patch, which should be a red flag with the rest of the picture, black wife beater and fingerless gloves.

All you notice, though—in a drunken, desperate haze—is that he’s alone. Not that people are warily side-stepping him and don’t dare to come within a three-foot radius, just that he’s alone, and that the way he’s eyeing the bar must mean he’s looking for company.

Maybe just once. Maybe just see how it goes. Maybe you’ll have the rent all squared away in a couple days. It isn’t going to be forever. If you were sober you’d probably cry again, but you aren’t even close.

He notices you staring and catches your eye, and a grin you can only describe as hungry slowly works its way across his face. You take a deep breath, count to five, let it out, and abandon your drink on the counter. It takes about twelve steps to get to him and by the time you’ve taken five you’re already having regrets, already second-guessing and trying to see if there’s someone behind him you can pretend you were staring at instead, but he’s holding eye contact and smiling even wider now—his teeth are showing and his canines are pretty prominent, which is kind of hot but kind of scary, too.

 _Confidence_ , you remind yourself, _confidence is key,_ and you manage in the few steps remaining to turn your deer-in-headlights apprehension into a coy smile. He likes that, he downs the shot and leaves the glass on the edge of the pool table to give you his full attention. Good, okay, a little tipsy is probably better, you think, and reach him after what feels like fucking forever.

You don’t give your name or even a brief introduction; you doubt he cares. You take a moment to compose yourself and then you make the pitch. “Let me show you a good time, sweetheart.”

Is that good? You hope that’s good. It’s not too strong, is it? Or maybe it’s a little weak, maybe you sound unsure. You don’t know. Your smile almost falls but then he says, “A good time, huh?”

He’s interested, okay, you’ve got this, stop shaking. “Absolutely,” you say, and then he looks you up and down.

“How much?”

That doesn’t offend you; you came out tonight thinking you’d audition for a spot in the lineup of the glorified whorehouse across the street, so you might’ve dressed for the part. At least he’s on the same page. “How does fifty sound?”

“A little steep. I’ve got twenty.”

You can’t keep up the bravado anymore. Is he for real? He wants to bargain with you? Twenty dollars, really? He should go get some new fucking shirts with that, and you almost say as much, but he cuts you off.

“But,” and he leans in when he says this, one hand sneaking around to squeeze your backside, “if you’re any good, I wouldn’t mind paying that much next time.”

Next time. He’s already talking about a next time. He’s up for a repeat if you make this worth his while. If he’s here every night, you’ll be financially stable in no time, even if he is a cheap piece of shit. With a renewed sense of confidence and a deficit in shame, you cup his face and press your lips to his, pulling at his lower lip with your teeth.

He growls at that and pulls you closer, but you detach from him and slip out of his arms, shooting a smirk over your shoulder. “Let me show you how good I am,” you say, and he’s in full agreement, guiding you to the men’s restroom with an arm around your waist.

He’s a little overeager, and by that you mean he slams you against the wall with a hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing a little too hard to be comfortable, but he crushes your lips together before you can voice a complaint. Unsurprisingly, he’s more teeth than tongue; he nips at the corner of your mouth to get you to let him in and acts like he’s trying to devour you rather than kiss you. When you try to reciprocate with a little tongue, he fucking bites you, and your mouth fills with the taste of copper. Your hands fly to his chest, trying to push him off, and even though he doesn’t move, he backs off enough to laugh and for you to see some blood on his mouth before he licks it away.

A demanding, “what the fuck?” is halfway out of your mouth but it dies in your throat when he takes out a fucking knife and presses it to the side of your neck. You feel it cold and biting, not breaking the skin yet, but it wouldn’t take much.

“Do me a favor and keep your mouth shut,” he says. His pointed eye teeth catch the light when he smirks. “I’m a paying customer, remember?”

This was a massive fucking mistake. “I don’t need the money that bad,” you say, but your voice is shaking.

He puts a hand on your shoulder and shoves you to your knees, the knife staying level with you the whole time. “The hell you don’t,” he snarls. “I saw you come looking around for someone easy and half as desperate as you.” He presses the blade against you a little harder and you freeze, choking on a whimper, as you feel beads of blood start to run down your skin. “I ain’t desperate,” he mutters. “But you offered a service and I agreed to pay. An honest business person wouldn’t back out.”

“Didn’t realize me making a pass at you was legally binding.”

The knife vanishes just in time for his fist to collide with your face, and the sound echoes off of the bathroom walls. You wheeze and clutch at your nose, feeling blood warm and slick dripping off of your chin. He grabs a fistful of your hair and forces you to look at him. “Smart mouth,” he comments, sounding inordinately pleased. “Let’s put it to better use, yeah?”

When he lets you go, you rest your neck and try to catch your breath, but you hardly get a moment of peace. He unzips his fly and

(no underwear, what a surprise)

you try not to look scared at the size of what’s in front of you.

“Well?” he says, voice dropping an octave into a deep rumble. “What’re you waiting for?” He cups your chin to force your mouth open and shoves himself down your throat. You grasp his hips desperately and his free hand moves from your chin to the back of your head, forcing you to take him all the way to the base. You panic, unable to breathe, and start gagging, but you manage to get yourself together when you feel him push the knife back against your throat with his other hand.

“If you bite me,” he warns, “I’ll slit your fucking throat and leave you to bleed out on the floor. Understand?”

You nod weakly.

He licks his lips. “You look good down there. Maybe this’ll be worth the money after all.”

The money is honestly the last thing on your mind at this point but you suppose you can consider it an additional silver lining if you survive. You clutch at his hips to steady yourself and take deep breaths through your nose, and when you finally feel ready, you slowly pull back, sliding your lips along his shaft.

You see him watching you with a lopsided grin, letting out a pleased sigh as he thrusts into your mouth, and you do your best to relax your jaw but the constant threat of the knife has you stiff and uneasy. He tangles his fingers in your hair and laughs breathlessly as he makes you choke again, bumping against the back of your throat.

“Relax a little,” he grunts, and you really are trying but he’s holding your hair too tight and pulling at your scalp, and you feel his other hand shaking and the knife tapping against your throat.

Just as you adjust to his rhythm, he starts moving even faster, and you whimper around his cock when the knife sinks into your skin, just a little, just enough to sting, and you feel your blood pouring down your shoulder and staining your shirt.

You wince, glancing up at him nervously to try to predict what he’s going to do next, and find him staring down at you, gaze heated, drool dripping down his chin.

“Like that,” he groans, “stay just like that, right there,” and your entire body relaxes when you hear the knife hit the floor, but it’s short-lived, because then he grips your head with both hands to hold you still and fucks your throat hard enough to leave it sore. “I’m gonna cum in your mouth,” he pants, voice straining. “And you’re gonna swallow. You’re not gonna spill a drop. You’re gonna take it, understand?”

Your protesting whine is muffled by his hips slamming into your face and you just try to ride it out, just try to hold in because it’s almost over, just wait, because good things come to those who wait.

_What a fucking joke._

When he comes, you immediately choke on the hot, sticky fluid filling your mouth and sliding down your throat, and he keeps a tight hold on you even when he’s finished, even when he’s gone still and your lungs are burning and you think you’re going pass out, you’re going to die, you’re going to die choking on cum—

“I told you to swallow,” he says, his low growl making your survival instincts kick in again, and you relax, you try to relax, you close your eyes and you arch your back and you swallow, swallow, swallow, until it’s all gone.

He lets you go after that, looking a little impressed and a lot interested. “Not bad,” he says, which is probably the nicest thing he’s said all night. It’s only when his hands release you that you realize how much of a wreck you are, collapsing back against the filthy bathroom wall with blood running from your neck down your arm, head and throat and knees sore and a terrible taste in your mouth.

You watch as he tucks himself back into his pants and takes out his wallet, pulling out a twenty dollar bill. He crouches beside you, grabs your wrist and puts the money into your palm, smirking at the frightened look on your face.

“Go on,” he says. “You earned it.”

You pocket the bill wordlessly, refusing to look at him.

“I wouldn’t mind a repeat of this.”

You’re sure he wouldn’t. He seemed to have a great time.

“How about a hundred next time?”

You freeze. Reluctantly, you glance up at him, expecting this to be one last way to fuck with you, but he’s grinning excitedly. Already imagining what he’s going to do to you.

“If you think you’re worth it, I mean.”

Your shoulder is throbbing. Your throat is burning. You feel dirty.

_(“This is how you do it. This is how you get by. People are gonna use you every chance they get, and that’s just how the world is._

_Don’t be afraid to use ‘em right back.”)_

You take a deep breath, let it out, and then you nod. “Yeah,” you say hollowly, “let’s do this again sometime.”

He doesn’t offer a hand to help you to your feet. He doesn’t wait around to make sure you’re okay. He’s gone before you can get a word out, before you even realize that you don’t even know his name.

But whatever. Who cares? He never asked for yours.

You take the twenty bucks, go right back out to the bar, and blow the whole thing in one go so the whole night becomes just a blurry bad dream behind you.


End file.
